


Journeys End in Lover's Meeting

by Uchihas_rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Historylock, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Story: The Adventure of the Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28384821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uchihas_rose/pseuds/Uchihas_rose
Summary: Moran's thoughts after the adventure of the empty house
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 3





	Journeys End in Lover's Meeting

_“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; “ ‘journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”_ – Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Empty House, 1903

_That cunning, cunning fiend!_

Moran could not help continuing to think it, after spitting it out multiple times so far. His eyes still glistened maliciously at the detective when he and his companion left and once again, he rued not having brought the Von Herder with him to the Falls. But no, that day he had been forced to take the role of a mere spectator, limited to throwing rocks at that pestering man’s head. If only the detective had kept his overly curious nose out of businesses that were none of his concern; if he had not started meddling with the Firm!

His body shook in anger, causing the cuffs around his wrists to shake. How _dared_ Holmes? How dared he comparing this… cowardly ambush to one of his traps? How dared that long-nosed troublemaker compare himself to _him_? Who did Holmes think he was?

And how dared that imbecile Lestrade laying hand on _his_ rifle? A man’s guns were sacred; did those hounds know no boundaries?

In ten years of service with the Professor, Moriarty had never given any notion that he even remembered Moran’s birthday, let alone acknowledging that he had one – until his fiftieth birthday when Moriarty had gifted him that very weapon Lestrade was now soiling with his grubby fingers. Specially crafted to Moran’s marksmanship by – as Holmes had so rightly observed – Von Herder, the old German mechanic who had been manufacturing every other odd object for Moriarty’s purposes even before Moran had joined the Firm.

And now Scotland Yard was putting their dirty paws on it – the thought alone infuriated Moran enough to gnash his teeth. His own incarceration did not concern him at this moment; he had always been a man who cared more for his weaponry than himself, although the Professor had always insisted that they both dressed their finest.

A dark, inhuman growl broke from Moran’s throat and he pulled experimentally on his shackles in a mocking attempt to free himself of the two constables’ grasp. He had never worried much about the peelers – if it wasn’t for Holmes, they barely got anything done at all, but this… This was simply humiliating, disgraceful. Usually, or had the circumstances been different – had Moriarty still been alive, for example – Moran would have gone calmly, even making a show to the peelers about the dutiful way in which they carried out their orders or pretended to have absolutely no idea what any of the accusations were supposed to mean, fully confident of walking free again by the break of dawn, whistling a jolly tune while strolling back to Conduit Street or maybe some Club to celebrate of whacking the police on the noses once more.

But that was not going to be the case. There wouldn’t be some whispered words, money exchanging hands, letters lying on the police constable’s desk by the time the prisoner would reach jail or whatever threads the Spider in his web had pulled to ensure his secrets to stay safe and the essential members of the Firm kept their freedom and lives.

There would be no Moriarty to free him, so Moran had no choice but to rely on his own wits. He was not of such fathomable intellect as the pestering detective or Moriarty himself, but he had been to Eton and even Oxford before joining the military services – plus, outwitting Scotland Yard was no task which required an extraordinarily amount of intelligence; just more than the constable in charge was possessing and comparing Lestrade, Patterson and McDonald, Moran found himself having the upper hand. Even if things would be different, he knew the questioning would be nothing more but a card game and Moran had oftentimes raised his table a winner – although more often due to illegal gains than not. There would not be any difference regarding his current situation and Moran saw no use in turning to honest behaviour now. Honesty would only get him the gallows.

He found himself pushed roughly in a cab, followed by a harsh command and the sharp crack of a whip, causing the carriage to rumble forward. If the situation wouldn’t have been looking so sinister, Moran would have laughed. Instead, he closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the carriage, remaining quiet. He could go and hate Holmes in silence, since cursing the man was of no good to anyone.

 _Are you going to be proud of me, Moriarty?_ , he thought bitterly, _in the end, the Nuisance was both our fall…_

Moran wasn’t afraid of death. He never had been. He had chased death, laughing them in the face whenever he had the opportunity to do so, not caring about anything that might happen to him. He had challenged death whenever he could, daring them to take him. There had been close calls, yes, but for now, he had always had the upper hand, cheating Death for their victory.

Now he wasn’t so sure anymore if he’d manage to get an Ace out of his sleeve this time. He had enough money to get himself the best advocates in London, but would that be enough to get him off? They had the gun, they had the bullets… Would that be proof enough, however, to make a relevant case on the Adair murder out of it? It wouldn’t, not if that nagging long-nose stayed out of this. _Scotland Yard baffled_ , the papers had read after Adair’s death – as if that were news! Wasn’t the Yard always baffled if a crime wasn’t done so obvious that even a child could solve it?

He closed his eyes again, humming quietly. It was a classical piece; Moriarty had always loved to hum it if he was in a good mood – which was almost as terrifying as when he was in a bad mood – so it didn’t surprise Moran much that he had it stuck in his head now, although he despised classical music.

 _Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,_ Holmes had said. Moran couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the detective knew how right he was.

He had no reason to be scared of death – if they’d manage to convict him, that was – especially not now. Moran had come back to London prepared to finish Moriarty’s plan to destroy Holmes for good. He owed it Moriarty, after all. This plan might have failed, like the first attempt in Switzerland had failed, costing Moriarty’s life.

The second attempt to end Holmes was probably going to take his, but what did it matter?

_None of them knew that death would prove Shakespeare’s words true._

Moran felt his lips curl up toward a smile. If this was death, he’d welcome it. He knew who’d be waiting for him, after all. 


End file.
